


Salt the Wound, Savor the Pain

by brohne



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22146355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brohne/pseuds/brohne
Summary: Paz only intended to teach Din a lesson ...
Relationships: Paz Vizla/Din Djarin, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Comments: 14
Kudos: 341





	Salt the Wound, Savor the Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this gorgeous artwork: (NSFW) https://twitter.com/xiphos__/status/1199730435581829120

Metal hit rock with a dull clang echoed by a surprised grunt. Paz Viszla let his weight keep the smaller Mandalorian pinned, his forearm resting across the newly forged breastplate. He could have sworn heat still radiated from it. He stared down at the dark visor, his own mirrored within. His fingers still itched to grasp the underside and rip it free. Instead, he clenched them into a fist.

“Your arrogance is going to get you killed, Din. Get all of us killed.”

The silver helmet tilted up and Paz felt Din struggling to catch his breath. “I don’t answer to you.”

Paz pressed harder and heard a stifled gasp. A gloved hand grasped his wrist—as if he could be moved so easily.

“Let me go.” The panted words sent a thread of heat through Paz. Their earlier scuffle still fresh on his mind, he let his gaze drop down the slender frame. He leaned his helmet closer and let his voice drop to a whisper.

“You dare think it will be that easy?”

He felt and heard the full-body shudder, metal ringing softly against the stone. The hand on his wrist tightened and the other shoved at his right shoulder. The feeble attempt almost angered him. Almost. Behind his visor, he grinned. Perhaps…

He ran his right hand down Din’s front and shoved the utility belt up out of the way, revealing the closures along the front of the flight suit underneath the flak jacket. He ran his thumb down the fabric, halting just above the growing bulge. He smirked and licked his lips.

“Stop me.”

Din’s breathing hitched and the already tense muscles quivered. Paz let his hand drop further until he could palm Din through the fabric. Din’s boots scuffed over stone as he widened his stance, a clear invitation. Paz chuckled softly and quickly unfastened the flight suit just enough to let Din’s erection free. Din let out a startled groan as Paz roughly grabbed him. Paz responded by squeezing until Din started to squirm.

“Stop me,” Paz whispered. There was no response, just the rapid rise and fall of Din’s chest under his arm. Paz eased his grip and began to stroke him, watching every little twitch of his helmet and listening for the way his breathing changed. Din’s grip on his wrist tightened and his other hand clutched at Paz’s bicep—not pushing him away, just gripping him.

He set a steady rhythm. Din’s soft groans and gasps, amplified through the helmet, had Paz struggling to keep from going faster, his own breath coming in short bursts. Din let out something between a snarl and a whine, hips bucking forward. Paz pressed him harder into the wall and tightened his grip on the lovely little cock in his hand. Din let out a yelp and thrashed for a moment. Yet—still—he did not attempt to escape or fight. Something that both thrilled and intrigued Paz. Din truly seemed to want this. To want him? He sucked in a ragged breath, a thrill running down his spine and setting his body alight. Every point of contact sent new shocks through him, each of Din’s fingers a singular point of prickling heat. The cock in his hand throbbed in time with his own heartbeat, rapid, strong.

“Stop me.” It was almost a plea, the words strangled around the sudden fluttering in his chest.

“Finish what you started.”

The quiet challenge had Paz growling. A spike of anger shot through him but was quickly tempered by the realization that he had started this … whatever _this_ was. He’d only planned to intimidate Din, force him to admit his cowardice in working for the Imps. But something else had taken over, something he’d ignored for so long it had festered like a wound. A deep ache at his very core.

But no, he was the one in control. Din would learn that. And learn it well. Paz stepped back, letting both arms drop to his sides. Din leaned against the wall, splay-legged and exposed. The rapid rise and fall of his chest and the repeated flexing of gloved fingers betrayed his agitation. With a soft growl Din started to reach for his crotch. Paz swatted his hand away. A snarl this time. Paz’s right hand shot out, gripping Din’s neck just under the edge of his helmet. Tight enough to send a warning. Tight enough to feel his pulse hammering away.

Din grabbed his wrist and this time did try to pry him off. Paz let him for a moment, allowing the frustration to build. He savored the growing tension, the way Din’s fingers scrabbled at him. With his free hand Paz grabbed Din’s cock and once more began to stroke him. The enraged grunts faded to baffled groans. Paz relinquished his grip on Din’s neck and once again braced his arm across his chest. Din’s grip remained tight on his wrist.

Paz let out another growl and began to stroke faster. His mouth watered at the thought of tasting Din, of taking him into his mouth, letting the saltiness linger on his tongue. He swallowed hard and bit his bottom lip. He ignored the growing heat and heaviness of his own cock, his entire focus on Din. Every muffled gasp, every twitch of gloved fingers, every tremor and shift in muscular legs. He drank it all in as if it would ease the ache deep in his chest. An ache that felt like an open wound left untreated too long.

He didn’t realize he’d slowed his pace until Din let out a low moan and pressed his hips forward. Paz responded with a squeeze.

“P-please …” Din panted, all but writhing under Paz.

Paz smirked and shook his head, a subtle side-to-side movement. “We are doing this my way, Din’ika*.”

He squeezed again to get his point across and Din gave a jerky nod, his breathing harsh through the helmet. Paz set a sedate pace, wanting to linger like this as long as he could. Who knew when, or if, he’d see Din again. Part of him whispered that his anger had really been pain. Pain of betrayal, of knowing someone he’d desired for so long would stoop to working with the Imps. He stopped himself, his hand stilling as the thought coalesced in his mind. Was that true?

He tilted his head to the side, staring down at the man before him. Who despite being completely covered in armor and hidden behind a helmet, managed to look thoroughly flustered. His shoulders jerked upward as if to dislodge Paz. Paz responded with a brutal twist and yank. Din yelped and shuddered. Paz found himself having to hold Din up as his knees buckled. The cock in his hand jolted rhythmically. The soft warm splatter of cum coated his glove. He let out a shaky sigh as the salty unmistakable scent infiltrated his helmet and. He slowly eased his arm away from Din’s chest, though he continued to lightly stroke him. The rattle of armor and stifled exclamations had him grinning.

Paz finally had mercy on Din and let him go. Din sagged against the wall, legs akimbo and arms dropped loosely at his sides. His helmet thumped back against the wall, visor pointed at the ceiling. Paz caught sight of a sliver of skin. He stopped himself as he started to reach out to touch it. As intimate as they’d just been, somehow that felt infinitely moreso.

Seeing more of Din was something he knew he’d covet more than any weapon, any ordnance, any armor. This encounter, this moment, was nothing but salt on the wound he hadn’t even realized existed.

*Mando'a: Little Din


End file.
